


A Study In Black

by loisselina (LoboMarshall)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Sherlock, Cutting, Depression, Doctor John, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Hallucinations, John is a good doctor, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Not Beta Read, Paternal Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Self Harm, and a good friend, auditory hallucinations, bipolar, like a fuck load of angst, mentions of drug use, tw cutting, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoboMarshall/pseuds/loisselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock falls into the depths of depression, how far will he go to stop the fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work , so please send me any comments about how it is and how it could me improved. Kudos if you enjoyed it, subscribe or bookmark if you wish.  
> Not beta'd.  
> The characters obviously don't belong to me but to ACD and the BBC respectively.
> 
> Set after ASiP , and before TBB.

**“You were going to take that damn pill weren’t you?”**   
**“Of course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up”**   
**“No you didn’t. That’s how you get your kicks isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”**   
**“Why would I do that?”**

Death by murder by suicide, a pretty clever way to die. Un-blameable had it have been unsuccessful. It would have been his prefect opportunity, Lestrade would have easily been able to have caught the cabbie, Rob or whatever his name was, without him. But then John had saved him, he clearly had poor judgement, or was simply ignorant of what Sherlock really was. A murderer. Because that’s what he truly, wasn’t he. The pink journalist would have been alive if he had caught him sooner, she had been at that press conference Lestrade had held, the one where Sherlock had been busy messing about with the phones. He could have saved her.

He slammed his balled up fists into his head, then left his hands in the nest of his mussed up hair, groping his scalp.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice radiated through from the living room, bringing a single ray of light into Sherlock’s otherwise darkened world.  
‘ _He’s probably going to leave you_ ’ hissed the voice at the back of his head ‘ _He probably saw the toes in the fridge, what kind of freak has toes in the fridge_ ’  
“It’s for an experiment” He muttered back.

Heaving himself off of his bed, he traipsed through to no doubt be told by John that he’d seen sense and was leaving. He was certain that the distance between his room and the rest of the flat had somehow stretched itself. He did a double take when he saw that John in the kitchen plating up two sandwiches.  
“W-what’s this?” He questioned, perhaps John was simply planning on poisoning him. He wouldn’t blame him, in fact if anything he might thank him. Sure his parents might be upset slightly, but then they’d go back to their tap dancing or whatever it was that they did now a days, and Mycroft would probably rejoice and it’d save the government a lot of money on Mycroft’s monitoring of him, in case he fall back into what he would deem unsuitable habits.  
“Sherlock?” John was staring at him intently, and speaking to him in the way in which one would speak to a wounded animal. Concern he noted absent mindedly, perhaps he wasn’t trying to poison him then.  
“Hmm?”  
“I said I made you some lunch… It’s just you didn’t really eat yesterday, or the day before...” he tailed off.  
“I don’t eat when I’m on a case”  
“But you’re not on a case, unless you’ve taken one that involves you spending about a week alone in your bedroom , barely eating or talking , and not even taking your laptop or phone in there with you…” He nodded his head towards the table in the living room where both lay.  
‘ _Wow, that was really clever of you Sherlock, genius truly. Even Anderson could come up with something better than that’_  
He clenched his eyes shut in order to no retaliate, the whole having an argument with yourself thing , Sherlock decided, probably was enough to turn even the brilliant John Watson running for the hills.  
“So chicken okay for you?”  
He yielded and plunked himself down, picking up the sandwich and examining it with distaste.  
“Sherlock… Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine, absolutely fine.” he snapped, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m composing and simply can’t be disturbed’ and hastily retreated to his room, abandoning his sandwich uneaten.

John searched the living room in hope of finding his laptop to search for a job. As fun as it was to prove a point with Sherlock, that wouldn’t get the rent paid. He sighed and laid his hands upon his hips, gazing around the room in hope of carelessly finding it, his eyes came to rest upon Sherlock’s violin upon its stand.

_‘It’s a drugs bust!’_   
_‘This guy a junkie?!’_   
_‘You may want to shut up now’_

Memories from the night Sherlock had almost been killed by the cabbie Jeff Hope, came flooding back to John. He collected his jacket and phone and left the flat.

Sherlock heard the flat door slam closed, ‘ _He’s probably left you this time_ ’ the voice jeered. Sherlock propelled into action, scouring every inch of his room for evidence of Mycroft’s pathological need to interfere in Sherlock’s life. When he found no bugs, he flung open his wardrobe and retrieved a small, heavy dark wooden box. The hinge of the lid opened easily due to its frequent use.

‘ _Use it_.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John worries about Sherlock's unusual behaviour, he goes to Greg for help.

**“You know him better than I do.”**   
**“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t.”**   
**“So why do you put up with him?”**   
**“Because I’m desperate that’s why.”**

 

_**Hi Lestrade,** _   
_**Can you meet me to talk, it’s about Sherlock. It’s urgent.** _   
_**John Watson – Sherlock’s Flatmate/Friend** _

_**John,** _   
_**At St Bart’s hospital, at the moment – meet me in the café there in about half an hour?** _   
_**Greg Lestrade** _

__

~~~~~~~~~~~

Half an hour later he was sat across from Lestrade with a coffee. “I’m sorry to have called you away, it’s just that you said you’ve known Sherlock for a while, and I don’t want to contact his brother until I’m certain of anything…” He started.  
“It’s fine John,” Greg soothed “but I think you should know , I’ve known him for longer than I said the other night , it’s nothing personal it’s just I know how hard Sherlock can be. He’s extremely private, and I didn’t know how long you’d be around. But I’ve known him for a bit longer than that, just over 10 years or so?”

“So when you met he was?”

“He was in his early 20’s, he’s 33 now, so about 21, 22? Look, you said it was urgent, is he okay?”

John hesitated for a while before answering, it felt like he was portraying Sherlock’s trust. What if John was simply overreacting? Then again, something was definitely wrong with Sherlock, and Greg had known him for a long time, surely he would be able to help.  
“I… I can’t be sure but… I-I think there’s something wrong with Sherlock. He’s been acting really weird over the past week or so, like weirder than he normally behaves. He’s sleeping constantly, he’s not eaten in days even though he’s not on a case. He keeps zoning out, he’s been spending all his time alone. He hasn’t been showering, hell he’s even lost interest in his laptop.”

“Crap” Lestrade muttered. “Listen, I’m gonna tell you about Sherlock when I first met him, this isn’t so you can judge him but I think you need to know, then we’re going to head over to your place and I’ll talk to him. Okay?”

John nodded in agreement, then Lestrade began to speak again.

“When I first met Sherlock he was basically a kid, about 21 bloody intelligent, but naïve almost to the way the world worked. I first met him when he was brought in to the police station, it was winter time and one of the softer policemen had seen him sleeping rough and obviously high on something. I was just a normal on the beat policeman then, I was working on the desk booking people in, he was extremely malnourished, high, he’d been sleeping rough for a few months or so. He was in really bad shape, anyway we managed to hold him overnight for possession of a Class A drug, mainly to get him a warm place for the night. Anyway I got talking to him, he deduced pretty much everything about me, that I was in my late 30’s, that I had a girlfriend who was cheating on me, that I was ambitious, hell he even could tell what newspaper I read. He was as high as a kite but he was still brilliant. The next morning, an official looking man, few years younger than me showed up, and collected Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“Yep, I thought I wouldn’t see Sherlock again after that. But I did, about a year later I had just received a promotion and was working in CID. I was working a big complex case, and was at one of the crime scenes and Sherlock approached me, he was still taking drugs, but wasn’t sleeping rough, and wasn’t as skinny. He told me that he could help me, I was a bit dubious at first, but after what he had told me about myself in that cell, and how desperate I was… Within a weak the case had been solved and Sherlock hadn’t taken cocaine, or any other drugs that I was aware of in that entire time. He begged me to let him consult, I told him I wouldn’t unless he was clean the entire time. He disappeared for almost a year before I saw him again, he said he was clean, did a drugs test, and helped out again on a couple of cases, taking drugs test every week, then he’d disappear for a couple of months, then the cycle would start again. About three years after I had let him start working on cases, I went out to his old flat to get him to sign some paperwork, I kept banging on the door to get him to let me in, he didn’t answer but I could tell something was up. I smashed open the door with my shoulder, I found him unconscious on the floor. He had over dosed. I called an ambulance, and stayed with him as much as they’d let me, Mycroft showed up after a couple of hours – tried to bully me into leaving, I think after a while he realised that that wasn’t going to happen. Anyway I stayed sat with him until he woke up, god he looked miserable, I mean I know he had just OD-ed but even so he looked like a little kid who’d just been told that Father Christmas wasn’t real. Mycroft assured me that he’d make sure his brother got the ‘help he needed’, Sherlock wasn’t responding to me so I went, I think he was a bit embarrassed to be honest. A couple of days later I got a text obviously from Mycroft telling me that he’d got Sherlock into a private rehab facility. I didn’t hear anything from Sherlock for about a year, then he came to see me at my office, I’d just been made DI, he told me he was clean and planned to stay so. Said he’d conform to drugs tests from both myself and Mycroft, in return for him consulting for me. I got a call later on from Mycroft confirming that Sherlock was in fact clean. I told you I’d been working with him for five years, the truth is that’s how long I have without him OD-ing. He’s fallen off the wagon once or twice, but he’s not got so bad that he’s almost killed himself.”

Lestrade sighed and finished off his own coffee.  
“You said he was spending a lot of time in his room, I might be wrong, but that’s the only place we didn’t get around to searching when we had that cabbie case.” Lestrade sighed again “Okay, let’s go back to yours, I’ll go and talk to him and search his room, whether he likes it or not’’.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to stop the growing volume in his head, but will John and Greg reach him before he does so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - Self Harm.
> 
> Sherlock uses very unhealthy 'coping' mechanisms in this chapter, and I do not endorce them at all.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**“One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”**   
**“Why would he do that?”**

Sherlock opened the lid of the box easily, of course it did, he had sat and stare at its contents often enough. He hadn’t used it though, he hadn’t quite needed to.

‘ _You had needed to, you were just too stupid to_ ’ the voice taunted.

He collapsed down onto his bed, sitting and placing the box beside him. He sighed and pinched his nose. If John found out, or Lestrade, or god forbid Mycroft! Unless he could hide it…  
Not the arms then, somewhere else.

He pulled off his pyjama t-shirt, and removed the silver scalpel from the box.

‘ _Do it_.’ The voice chided.

Turning the scalpel over in his hand, he brought it to gently rest on his right ribcage, pushing down he made a deep cut with immediately began to trickle blood. He made another cut, then another, then another. He then moved the scalpel to his stomach and made several deeper cuts on his stomach, the sting of each of the cuts bringing with them a welcome distraction.

‘ _Your wrist_ ’ the voice whispered, seeming to Sherlock much less hurtful than it had earlier.

Moving the scalpel about two inches down from where his wrist and hand met and pressed the scalpel deep into his wrist making a deep cut. Perhaps he’d be brave enough to cut too deep, to bring his whole miserable existence to an overdue end.

The throbbing pain from both his body and wrist brought his mind to focus, where had John gone? He had seemed… concerned earlier. Did he know? No he couldn’t have, no one had ever told him…  
Oh! But people had told him about Sherlock’s past drug use. Which meant he would go to someone who knew Sherlock for advice, so either Mycroft or Lestrade then. But John knew Sherlock disliked Mycroft too much to have gone to him first, so Lestrade. Which meant Lestrade. He wouldn’t have met him at his flat so either the Yard or somewhere else he’d be when working a case which wasn’t a crime scene but Lestrade could be alone to talk to John. St Barts Hospital then, more likely that than the Yard, Lestrade would feel more comfortable talking about him in a place which wasn’t their working environment. How long had John gone out? About 45 minutes ago or so? Enough time for them to have discussed him for, which meant he had barely any time.

Shoving the scalpel back into the box and making a mental note to clean it later he went over to his chest of drawers and removed the second drawer completely. He then pulled down the top hidden drawer and place the box in there before replacing both of the drawers, grabbing a clean pyjama top as he did so.

Stumbling into the adjoining bathroom he locked the drawer and pulled out the first aid box which John had insisted on having. Ribs and stomach first, he decided, there were more of those, so should John see them bleeding through his t-shirt, they would be more problematic. He quickly washed them with antiseptic, and was bandaging them up when he heard the flat door open.

“Sherlock”

He heard John voice carry through the flat, and Lestrade’s familiar gait close behind him. Making sure he returned all the contents to the box and carefully stashed it back under the sink. Quickly grabbing the blooded cotton balls and bandage wrappers he threw them in the bin. No time to bandage them now, although they probably wouldn’t notice.

He heard them approaching the bathroom door.

“Sherlock, if you don’t open this door right now I swear down I’ll break it down.” Lestrade commanded.

Wearily Sherlock unlocked the bathroom door and opened it. John pushed past him and looked down into the toilet.

“There’s nothing down the loo,” John said to Greg, shaking his head slightly “I don’t think he flushed it in the time it took us to get to this door either.”

Perhaps John was more observant than he gave him credit for.

“What’s this Jeff? Do you go around to all your consultant’s flats and threaten to break down their bathroom doors?” Sherlock tried to sound with a hint with a sound of anger, but he was just hyperaware that all he sounded was tired.

“I’m not playing Sherlock,” Lestrade retorted at Sherlock’s feigned ignorance of his name “I think we better have a chat don’t you?” Nodding towards Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Sherlock swallowed, and nodded almost imperceptively. Perhaps this would be harder than he had thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade attempts to have a heart to heart with Sherlock.

**“This is childish.”**   
**“Well I’m dealing with a child.”**

 

Sherlock’s room which had been his entire world for the past week, suddenly seemed claustrophobic. Feeling suddenly dizzy, he feel to sit on his bed, Lestrade took this to be an act of submission, and smiled slightly. Sherlock this impasse as an opportunity to mess up his hair, perhaps if he could look pathetic enough Lestrade would lecture him to a lesser degree about his supposed drug habit.  
“What the bloody hell happened to your arm?” Lestrade not quite yelled with alarm… or was it concern? He could never fully discern the two emotions.  
“Oh…erm… an experiment”

‘ _Well, you did want to seem pathetic_ ,’ the voice hissed in his ears, ‘ _although, it’s not like you really needed to try, is it_?’

Lestrade crossed his arms and put on what some might call a ‘dad’ voice, but Sherlock saw only as a ‘lecture Sherlock’ voice. “What the hell were you experimenting? If it was possible to bleed to death before you actually bothered to I don’t know, use first aid?” the sarcasm practically dripping off his voice.

“Well I was about to, but then some buffoon demanded I remove myself from the bathroom” Not a lie.

 

“Well I wouldn’t have if… It doesn’t even matter right now, into the bathroom now”

“Why?” He replied wearily, had Lestrade figured out what he had done?

“Because I want to make sure you don’t get sepsis,” Seeing Sherlock about to argue, his dad voice returned with full force “No arguments. Now.”

Relenting Sherlock led the way to the bathroom, resisting the urge to close and lock the door behind himself, as Lestrade found a clean looking glass in Sherlock’s room and brought it into the bathroom with him.

“I’m guessing you haven’t had a drink in a while? I don’t think that losing blood and not drinking is a very good combination.” He replied to Sherlock’s puzzled look.

Sitting down silently on the closed toilet seat, Sherlock was almost asleep by the time Lestrade had tracked down. The earlier fire running through his veins from the cuts he had made had quickly deserted his body and all he desired to do was sleep for a very long time.  
‘ _If you wanted to sleep, you should have cut deeper_ ’ the voice goaded him.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I said pass me your arm” Lestrade replied gently.

Lestrade carefully washed the cut with water and cotton wool, before washing it with antiseptic, covering it with antiseptic cream, and bandaging it with a practiced hand. He passed Sherlock the cup of water, washed his hands, and then waited until Sherlock had drained the cup to start asking him questions.

“What was your experiment on then?” He started with an easy question, there was something about the way Sherlock had been behaving earlier that gave him an uneasy feeling in his stomach, although he couldn’t identify why.

“Something you wouldn’t understand Lestrade. And I know you came here to lecture me for no reason, so please get on with it and then leave.” He snapped with venom.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes slightly, frowned and crossed his arms again. Sherlock was definitely hiding something, he would normally be bursting to tell someone about his experiment.

“Are you doing drugs?”

“Nope. Is that all?” He said bringing himself to his feet and starting to walk out of the bathroom.

Lestrade grabbed hold of his forearm to stop bringing him to a stop. “What’s going on sunshine?” he half begged.

“I’m not a child Greg” He muttered, his eyes fixed to the floor, as he ignored the whirring stream of constant insults the voice was now whispering into his ears.

“Well you act like one most of the time, anyway the amount of times I’ve had you kip at my place you may as well be.” He bit back with no heat.

Sherlock kept staring perpetually at the tiled floor, either fighting tears or a pout. Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fine, okay. Have you got any drugs in the flat, or entire house?” Sherlock shook his head, “Okay  
well you’re going to wait in here with John whilst I search your room, and the rest of the flat.”

Leaving the bathroom, he nodded at John to go and join him whilst Lestrade searched the rest of the flat.  
He checked in every nook and cranny, in floorboards, between the t-shirts in Sherlock’s dresser, in the safe behind Sherlock’s framed periodic table (which bizarrely only contained an unsolved Rubik’s cube). The fake books in the sitting room, everywhere, but he couldn’t find any drugs.

“Oh so you didn’t find any drugs then, what a relief” Sherlock snapped tiredly.  
Lestrade pointedly ignored Sherlock, and turned to John. “I couldn’t find any drugs in the flat, I’ll just finish talking to Sherlock then I’ll see myself out” John nodded, smiled slightly and left to go and make himself a cup of tea, automatically making Sherlock one also.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock prepared his dad voice again and crossed his arms, “Something’s definitely wrong Sherlock, I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell. No don’t sneer, you know I have. Frankly you’re scaring both me and John. Get something to eat and drink, then go to bed and get some shut eye. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten and you can come in and work on some cold cases.” He raised his hand to silence Sherlock’s protests. ”I know you don’t work for me , but you’re other choice is I ring Mycroft and share my worries with him.” He took Sherlock’s silence as agreement, and left with a “Goodnight sunshine”.

' _He probably wishes you’ll die in your sleep, so he doesn’t have to get stuck with you for another day._ ' The voice sneered, and Sherlock found himself agreeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I've done Lestrade some justice here, more to follow hopefully tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sherlock be able to evade Greg ? And will John and Greg be able to figure out what is happening with Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that John gets a job in tbb, but I made him get one earlier in order for this to work.
> 
> Please kudos/subscribe/comment/bookmark !

**“So why do you put up with him?”**   
**“Because I’m desperate, that’s why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think that one day, if were very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”**

After John finally managed to get a small child’s serving of lasagne, and a cup of tea into Sherlock, Sherlock excused himself to his bedroom for the night.

He sighed looking at the clock on his bedside table, how was it only 10? He was shattered.  
 _‘Well on the plus side, you can spend a whole day with Lestrade tomorrow_ ’ the voice mocked, ‘ _He’ll probably figure out what you did, he’ll know how pathetic you are. And he definitely won’t trust you at a crime scene, how could he trust someone who would do that to themselves. That’s if he trusts you to even be at a crime scene, and John will move out, he thinks you’re brilliant that’s the only reason he’s here, he’ll see how pathetic you are and leave you forever. As for Mycroft-_ ‘  
‘SHUT UP’ Sherlock shouted in his head. He reached across the bed and set an alarm for 8:30, that would give him time to communicate with John, he shuddered at the thought, that would make John less suspicious of him. Then once John had left at 8:45 for his new job locum-ing at a doctor’s surgery, Sherlock could slip out of the flat, and avoid Greg. A perfect plan.

His blaring alarm rose him from his slumber, he lay in bed for several minutes, wondering if there was any point in getting out of bed, however the voice’s little speech the previous night was enough to convince him. He quickly dressed, he could shower later, and entered the kitchen where John was making two mugs of tea, as Sherlock entered the room he added another mug to the ensemble.  
“Ah good, you’re up.” A voice came from the doorway between the lounge and the kitchen.  
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Sherlock shouted turning to where Lestrade was stood.  
“Well I’m not an idiot, I knew you’d try and avoid me, but you wouldn’t want John to worry so you would be getting up before he left for the clinic.” Lestrade stated with a smug smile “So why don’t you have your breakfast and then we’ll be off.”  
Sherlock glowered at Lestrade before finally sitting at the table where John had placed a plate of toast and a coffee, he opted to add a couple of sugars to his coffee and ignore his toast completely. He could feel Lestrade’s eyes bore-ing into the back of his head.  
“Well, I’m off. Have fun you two.” John said mainly looking at Sherlock with that annoying look of concern he tended to wear.  
As the door the flat door closed, Lestrade moved to sit on the other side of the surprisingly clutter free table, across from Sherlock. After he had finished his own cup of tea, he stared at Sherlock’s distant face, no doubt planning on another way to get out of spending the day with Lestrade.  
“You gonna let your toast go cold?” He asked in a seemingly casual way  
“I don’t eat when I’m on a case.”  
“You’re not on a case,” he reasoned “Anyway since when do you refer to looking over my cold cases as ‘being on a case’” he added humorously.  
Irritated, he picked up half a slice of toast and took a big bite out of it to try and placate Lestrade. Its cardboard like taste made him want to gag, taking a swig of his drink he managed to swallow it. He looked defiantly at Lestrade, a look which clearly told Lestrade that Sherlock would not be eating anymore toast.  
Sighing, but know ing when to pick his battles, Lestrade nodded his head towards the door, “Come on then.”  
Sherlock smiled a tight, toothless smile at him, “You go ahead, I’ll follow you in a cab”.  
Lestrade chuckled mirthlessly, “Ha, after you’ve already tried to shake me off today? Nope, I’m not letting you out my sight sunshine. In fact I’m considering whether to make you sit in the back with the kiddie-lock doors.”  
With looks that could kill, Sherlock followed him out of the flat and down the stairs, before quickly rushing over to the passenger’s side of the car. Clicking the unlock button on his car keys, Lestrade smirked happy that for once Sherlock was taking him seriously, he’d have to explain the difference between being serious and joking to him though, again.  
The 20 minute car journey was completed in silence, Lestrade choosing to go the longer way around, simply to see if Sherlock reacted, yet he made comment, in fact he didn’t even sigh. Lestrade decided to keep a close eye on him today.

Unlocking his office door he led Sherlock into the room, he had already had someone bring up some of the more interesting cold cases for Sherlock to look at. Walking in Sherlock chucked his coat onto one of the empty chairs and sat down cross-legged on the floor next to a box of files. Sighing Lestrade settled his bag on the floor next to his desk, then hung up both his and Sherlock’s coats. Settling down at his desk he picked up one of his own files to look through of a previous case, today was almost guaranteed to be a quiet day, Sally and a couple others where out doing routine jobs and he was catching up on his paperwork. He looked over at Sherlock who was apparently studying a case file. He seemed younger, perhaps it was because he was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt, his blazer laying abandoned on the floor beside him ,instead of his usual amour of a suit and either a dark or a white shirt. He was about to scold him for leaving his jacket lying around when he spotted some blood seeping into the arm of his shirt.  
“Sherlock!” he called over, Sherlock’s head shot up, startled,” You’re bleeding.” Sherlock looked over at him wide eyed, Lestrade would even go as far as to say he looked scared. “Your arm,” he said to the younger man’s ever questioning eyes, walking out from behind his desk and over to Sherlock’s side he pulled the younger man up by the top of his arm, “ come here. Now sit there”, he said depositing him into the chair opposite his desk.

He went over and retrieved the first aid kit from on top of his filing cabinet, sitting in the chair beside Sherlock, he pushed up his sleeve to examine the source of the blood.  
“Sherlock, did you take off the bandage I put on yesterday?” Sherlock shrugged in reply, “Sherlock…” he said in a warning tone.  
“It was itchy.” The man whined, definitely like a child.  
Lestrade sighed and started to clean and re-bandage the arm. “Remind me to get John to hide your chemistry set when he goes away to that conference in a couple of days, yeah?” he said half-jokingly.  
“What?” Sherlock pulled his arm back and his head shot upwards.  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade complained and took the arm back, rearranging the now skewed bandage and fixing it straight, securing it with enough tape to ensure it wouldn’t accidentally come off. “John’s going to a conference in a couple of days, he’s only told you a few hundred times”. He gazed up at Sherlock’s now deeply troubled face, “Don’t worry he’ll be coming back.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder as he stood up and went back and sat at his desk. After a couple of minutes Sherlock went back and sat cross-legged on the floor. Lestrade made sure to bring him coffee and some lunch throughout the day, Sherlock made sure to ignore the lunch part and simply drain his coffee in a few gulps, apparently immune to the effects of hot liquids.

When it got to five o’clock, Lestrade decided that he had had enough of his paperwork, and started to pack his things away. Half an hour later finally having cajoled Sherlock away from the half-finished cold cases with the promise that he’ll pick him up again tomorrow and he could spend the next day going over them.

Driving home, Sherlock lacked his normal sarcastic commentary. Lestrade even tried to evoke it by singing along to a pop song on the radio, alas to no avail. Sherlock barely noticed they had arrived at 221b Baker Street until Greg announced it. As Greg drove away he made note to text John later to make sure Sherlock had ate, and also made himself a promise that he’d find out what was the matter with Sherlock tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives home, but with John's trip looming will Sherlock yield to pressure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so like major trigger warning for this chapter for self harm

**“Ah breathing. Breathing’s boring.”**

As he walked into the flat he saw John already home.  
“Oh, hey.” He said smiling at Sherlock, “Good day?”  
Sherlock shrugged and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He had been meaning to speak all day, yet had never quite managed it, it felt as though his vocal cords were simply too tired to do so.

“Just so you know I’m off to my conference tomorrow afternoon, I know I told you the other day , but I just thought I’d remind you.” Johns head was tilted to the side, as if trying to deduct Sherlock, “Sherlock?” he questioned to Sherlock’s quickly paling face.

“I-I’m going to take a bath.” He stuttered, and moved towards the bathroom.  
With a confused look on his face, John called to his hastily retreating form, “Okay, I’ll order takeaway when you’ve done.”

John picked up his phone to text Greg. Sherlock stuttering? That couldn’t be good news, just as he was starting his train of thought as to how he could word his concerns his phone vibrated in his hand.

 ** _J-_**  
 ** _Sh was in a v odd mood today, how is he now?_**  
 ** _Greg_**  
He quickly typed up a reply.

 ** _G-_**  
 ** _Hardly spoke, he actually stuttered when he did. He came in looked exhausted, then said he’s going to take a bath?_**  
 ** _John_**  
He sat down in his armchair and waited for a reply, flicking through TV channel absent mindedly. Not long after he had settled on a documentary about serial killers his phone buzzed again.

_**J-** _   
_**Yeah, that’s very weird. I’ll swing by tomorrow same time, see if he brightens up a bit then. If not I’ll try get to the bottom of it whilst you’re away. Do me a favour, try and get him to eat something will you? Pretty sure he’s only standing up on one bite of toast and a crap load of coffee.** _   
_**Greg.** _

Sighing at his phone and at his peculiar flatmate’s habits, he lifted himself out of his chair and made himself a cup of tea. He decided that if Sherlock wasn’t out of the bath by the time that the documentary was finished he’d make sure he hadn’t fainted in the bath. He had a feeling this would be a long night.

Sherlock shed his coat and suit jacket onto his bed. As if John had needed to remind him that he was being left alone for a couple of day, ever since Greg had mentioned it earlier in the day it’s all he could think about.  
‘ _You know why he’s leaving you right?_ ’ the voice in his head asked with glee ‘ _It’s because you’re a freak. You are a freak, and you’re dangerous. You should be locked up. Institutionalised_.’

Growling “Fuck off.” Under his breath, he stalked over to his dresser and removed the wooden box once more from the hidden drawer.

‘ _Yeah, that’ll prove you’re normal. Honestly you idiot, why don’t you just use them to end yourself? You don’t deserve to be alive_.’ The voice chanted.

Going into the bathroom he locked the door leading to the hallway and the one leading to his room, and he started running the bath water. As the bath started filling up he glared at the box, he hated being this weak. To have to depend on such an illogical thing to distract himself from feeling as though his insides were falling down a never ending hole. Getting lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice his water overflowing. He stripped off his clothes, the bandage from his arm, and climbed into the porcelain tub. Reaching out of the bath he opened the box which was on the floor beside the bath, and took out the scalpel.

Quickly washing the dried blood off it in the bath, he pressed the scalpel into his upper arm and cut, moving it slightly lower he cut again, and again, and again. He cut until the entire outer section of his upper arm was covered in cuts and he could no longer see it due to the vast amount of blood. He placed the scalpel on the side of the bath and submerged his arm in the bath, hissing through clenched teeth as it made contact with the water.  
‘ _It’s not enough_.’ The voice told him kindly ‘ _It’ll never be enough, everything is too much Sherlock. You have to end it. For good this time. All this, it’s just too much. These cuts won’t ever work Sherlock. You have the power to stop this hurt. To stop the fall. Just a few deep cuts and your wrists, and you won’t have to fall any further…_ ‘

The voice carried on coaxing him as he picked up the scalpel again. He made a few superficial cuts on either wrist, trying to build up courage.

‘You can do this Sherlock, it’ll all be over-‘

“Sherlock” John shouted through the locked door “Sherlock!” He shouted slightly louder this time, and began pounding on the door.

“I... I.. Yes?” He stuttered back in his deep baritone.

“I was beginning to think you’d drown in there, you gonna hurry up? I’ll order the takeaway?” John sounded wearier than he normally did. Perhaps he had noticed the slight difference in Sherlock’s normally snarky, self-confident voice, and the one which had seemed to replace that one, the unsure, and stuttering, about to cry tone.

“I… Yeah… Yeah I’ll be through in a minute”. He couldn’t end it here. He couldn’t end it now, not while John was in the other room. He couldn’t do it without saying goodbye to John. One last meal with the man who had a couple of weeks previously saved his life, without having known that it was not worth saving.

He quickly dried off, got changed into pyjamas and a robe, and bandaged up his still bleeding arm and wrists, then emptied the now pink bath water. Returning his room he placed the box in the wardrobe, there was no need for precautions anymore. Not now his plan had been made.

Then he went to join John for a last meal. A last supper as it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter even though it's rather dark. As always kudos/bookmarks/subscribes/comments are very appreciated 
> 
> Tumblr : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock composes goodbye letters, will John notice somethings up before he goes away ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one for now, should upload a new chapter fairly soon though.

**“He’s Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on inside that funny old head?”**  
  
He woke early the next morning to the silver winter sun pouring through his curtains, he felt a sense of serenity wash over him. By tonight it was all going to be all right. It was all going to be over.  
Deciding to forgo his morning shower he quickly dressed, he would have to spend the day with Lestrade – that was simply unavoidable. He went into the living room and rooted around his desk until he found four envelopes. Writing on the first one Mycroft’s address, the second he wrote his parent’s address, the third he wrote Greg, and the fourth he wrote John.  
  
Writing notes, this was the hardest bit of his plan. Sentiment. But these weren’t for him, these were for the five people who would be most affected.  
He wrote his parents a note, thanking them for all they had done, apologising for oh so many things, and trying to reassure them that this wasn’t their fault.  
Next he wrote Lestrades, who had after all been so much like a parent to him. He thanked him for all the times he stopped him from going back to drugs, for the work, for simply being there, he told him sorry but he couldn’t do it. Mycroft’s was the easiest to write, just five simple words: I couldn’t do it again.  
He held his pen above the last piece of paper, Johns. How could he write this to John, John who had shot a man for him? John who had thought he was worth it. John.  
He heard the sound of John’s suitcase being bounced on every step as John descended the stairs. If he knew what Sherlock was planning on doing…  
‘ _He wouldn’t do anything, if anything he’d help. He’d so disgusted by you. He had friends who died. He almost did. He would give anything for them to be alive not you.’_ The voice slithered around his brain in a snake like manner.  
  
“Sherlock you okay?” John’s voice dragged him from his thoughts.  
“I’m fine, absolutely fine.” He said in what he hoped was an upbeat voice.  
John frowned his eyebrows and pursed his lips together momentarily. ‘Uh oh’ Sherlock thought, he had learnt very quickly that this was John’s thinking face. Was he onto him? Perhaps he had sounded too upbeat.  
“Sherlock –“He was cut off by a knock at the flat door, John frowned again at Sherlock before moving and opening it.  
“Hey John, I-“Greg abruptly stopped as he was ushered into the flat by John. “Sherlock!” he gaped at Sherlock blinking a couple of times as if to check that Sherlock was really there as he wasn’t just seeing things. “What are you doing up?”  
“Hello to you too Greg.” He smirked, “Well I thought I was going to go solve all your cases today” He said hopefully adding his usual arrogance into his speech.  
“I should be heading off, I don’t want to miss my flight.” John injected, “Look Sherlock, look after yourself, yeah?” He squeezed Sherlocks shoulder in farewell.  
“I’ll see you out John.” Lestrade added quickly, seeing him down the stairs and to the door.  
Taking advantage of being on his own Sherlock quickly wrote, ‘I’m Sorry’ in his messy scrawl on the piece of paper, which he folded and placed down the side of John’s chair. He placed the letters to Mycroft and to his parents on top off his own desk, no doubt they would be taken care of in his absence. Finally he placed Lestrade’s letter inside his suit pocket, he could find somewhere to put it later on.  
  
Greg came back into the flat as Sherlock was getting on his coat ready to go.  
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
“W-What do you mean?” Sherlock questioned suddenly alarmed.  
“You’re not going until you eaten something, I’ve already had John bite my ear off for not making you eat yesterday.” He crossed his arms as if to illustrate the fact that he wasn’t going to budge on this matter.

Sherlock sighed but complied. After all, he couldn’t rob Greg of this last opportunity to eat breakfast with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With John leaving will Sherlock set his plan into motion, will someone help him before it's too late?

**“When so many want you dead, it hardly seems good manners to argue.”**

 

After his usual grumbling Greg was satisfied that he had ate enough they set off for the Yard.  
“So how’s your….. dog?” Sherlock tried.  
Greg turned his head from staring at the red traffic light glowering past the mass of cars in front of them, to narrow his eyes at Sherlock confused. “You’re….. trying to make small talk?”  
Sherlock swallowed visibly, “I-I…didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I apologise.” He turned his head to look out of his side window in an attempt to end the conversation.  
“Sherlock… Hey Sher, look at me” Greg stared at him benevolently, waiting for him to eventually turn back towards him, which he eventually did, before he would start talking to him again.. “Sher, what’s going on with you? Hmm? This is more than just you being bored isn’t it? It’s okay you can talk to me” He soothed.  
Sherlock hesitated for some minutes.  
‘ _Don’t tell him. He’ll ruin it. He’ll tell Mycroft, and then he’ll leave you all alone. And John will never come back. You’ll be locked up. Don’t tell him. You can’t trust him. Don’t tell._ ’  
A sudden beeping of a car behind them dragged Sherlock from his thoughts, “The light’s on green.” He managed to choke out before retreating back to staring out of his window, ignoring any future attempts of conversation from Lestrade.  
When they reached the Yard Lestrade unlocked his office and dumped his coat inside. He turned to Sherlock who had already shed his coat and blazer, and was sat crossed legged with his shirt sleeves rolled up, “Hey, I’m just gonna talk to Donavan quickly, okay?” Sherlock nodded without turning around.  
Greg managed to catch Sally at her desk, she groaned as she saw him approaching her.  
“Lestrade what’s the freak doing here? Oh god please tell me he’s not becoming a proper pc. Oh God! Tell me you’re not leaving him with me!”  
“Hey! Hey!” Greg had to shout to stop Sally rattling on, he held his hands up in a placating manner. “Calm down, and don’t call him freak, yeah? He’s not joining the police in any official capacity, so just relax, yeah?” He heard her exhale happily, but let it slide. “Look I’m gonna catch up on some paperwork today, do me a favour and keep everyone out? I’m rather far behind.”  
“Yeah sure Lestrade, as long as the f- he doesn’t interrupt any of our investigations we’ve got going on.” He reassured her and returned to his office.

Two hours after he had started on his much need paper work he saw Sherlock suddenly stand up and bustle out of his office leaving both his blazer and coat. Greg knew he wouldn’t leave anywhere without that coat, his heart stopped its rapid pacing which he didn’t realise it had started. He stood up himself and left the office, although there was no sign of Sherlock he knew exactly where he had gone.

Leaning back against the wall near one of the side doors out of the yard Sherlock pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, taking out one of the few left and the lighter before putting the packet away. He placed the cigarette into his mouth and shielded on of his hands around it as with the other he clicked the lighter and lit it.  
“Those things will kill you, you know.” Came a voice from beside him.  
As he blew out his mouth full of air he gave a mirthless laugh.  
“You know you didn’t have to come down and supervise me.” He said staring down at the lit cigarette between his fingers.  
“I’m not here to supervise you, you berk.” Greg replied quickly, pausing to lean his back against the wall, mirroring Sherlock. “You left pretty suddenly. What case was it?”  
“I… erm it was… it’s not important. I-I just” He spluttered, then he arched his back and threw his head back so that the top of it led on the brickwork, “It was a suicide. From a few years ago, they thought there may have been mysterious circumstances. There was not.”  
Greg nodded once and continued to stare at Sherlock, knowing that there’d be more.  
“The victim… Sean? Sam? Anyway they had been acting differently sometime before the suicide, the officers from the original case thought these behavioural changes: increase time spent away from family and friends, anger issues, risk taking behaviour, was due to abuse taking place. It was not due to that however, it was a neurochemical problem. A mental health disorder. More specifically Bipolar Disorder.” He took a long drag of his cigarette after he had finished.  
“Okay, that sad and everything. But why were you upset?” Greg probed.  
“Oh yes, because I’m a freak who’s incapable of emotions.” Sherlock snapped sarcastically, using his head to push him back onto the flats of his feet to go back inside.  
Greg grabbed his arm before he could walk. “No, you know I don’t think that. That I’ve never thought that! I just want to know why it got to you. Because believe it or not after know you for so long, I care about you.”  
Sherlock stood still blinking his eyes a few times, as if unsure how to process this information. “I…” he pause, blinking a few more times, after which he gave a brief, tight smile, “I guess the boredom just got to me that’s all, made me more sensitive.” He smiled again at Greg, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, before heading back inside where they sat in a slightly more comfortable silence for the rest of the day.

When it finally was time to go both Sherlock and Greg had finished their cases.  
“Let me buy you some dinner.” Greg started.  
“I’m really not hungry Lestrade.” Sherlock replied quickly, almost too quickly, cracking his fingers in an anxious gesture.  
“Yeah well you’re coming whether you like it or not. I promised John I wouldn’t let you starve yourself to death whilst he was away. Come on.” He threw an arm over Sherlock’s shoulder leading him out of the office.  
“Fine, if only to save you from the loneliness of your flat. Your wife cheating on you again was she?” echoed the deep baritone around the empty department floor as Greg turned off his office light.

It was pushing ten o’clock by the time Greg got back from dinner and dropping Sherlock back at Baker Street. When he got into his flat he immediately changed into the tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt he slept in during the eternal winter known as the British climate. He pulled on some scruffy trainers before going over to his coat he had worn that day to retrieve the cigarettes he had carried with him, yet had not smoked a single one of. ‘ _Must do it as some sort of power thing_ ’ he mused as he felt his fingers brush against some paper. Surprised by this texture, and curious to see what it was he pulled it out, discovering an envelope with his name on it in Sherlock’s messy scrawl ‘ _Curiouser and curiouser. Didn’t realise he knew how to write a letter, he’s always texting_ ’ He frown slightly at this thought as he ripped open the envelope. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, as his eyes drifted over the scribbled words they fed the monster. By the time he had reached the end of the letter, the monster was clawing to get free. He breathed out.  
“Shit."  
He grabbed his car keys and ran out his flat.  
He hoped he wasn’t too late.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Greg reach Sherlock before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major major trigger warnings for this chapter.

**“Well, don’t commit suicide.”**  
  
The rain lashed down upon London, blanketing it in a dark, cold seclusion from the rest of the country. The streets were devoid of people, if it weren’t for the rectangles of lights in the buildings London could have been mistaken for a ghost town.  
The sound of Greg’s heavy footed running echoed down Baker Street, coming to a lull as he fumbled to find the key he kept for emergencies. As he ran up the wooden stairs, Mrs Hudson came out of her flat with a confused look on her face.  
“Inspector, what are you doing here?”  
“Don’t worry I just need to see Sherlock.” He paused his assent up the stairs a he added, “Only come up if I shout you.” in a firm tone. Something about the seriousness in his tone made her go back into her own flat instead of making further comment, she pushed the door to instead of fully closing it, sensing she may be needed soon.  
Greg opened the unlocked door to 221b. Darkness shrouded the flat, Greg flicked on the living room light steeling himself for the scene he might be faced with. He scoured the room from the bookcase and facing arms chairs, to the sofa and coffee table but found no Sherlock. He hoped desperately that he was in the flat, that he hadn’t gone somewhere else to… ‘No’ he thought to himself ‘You can’t think like that.’ He walked through the kitchen, his eyes darting around for signs of the lanky detective, he reached the doorway of Sherlock’s open room when he heard muffled sobs.  
“Sherlock” He called shakily, stepping into the bedroom and turning the light on, he searched around the bedroom to discover that it, like the other rooms, was also empty. Greg had begun to think that he had imagined the sobs, like a dehydrated explorer might see a mirage of water in the desert when he heard them again.  
He span of his heels 180 degrees so he was facing the closed bathroom door.  
“Sherlock” he called in what he hoped was a soothing tone as he stepped closer to the doorway. He knocked once and called “Sher, I’m coming in okay? It’s alright. It’s all gonna be okay” He pushed open the door to be faced with a wall of darkness. “Sher? Sher, I need to turn the light on, okay?”  
“No! No Greg I- I… no please…. I – I couldn’t… I tried… But I…” The horse voice choked off before it was stopped by the tell-tale signs of someone trying to silently cry.  
“It’s okay Sher.” He soothed again. Then he flicked on the light.

Greg Lestrade had been a policeman for a long time, he had seen a lot of injuries, a lot of bad deaths, and a lot of blood. But the sight that met him in the artificial light of the small bathroom was enough to make his stomach churn. Sherlock sat cross legged beside the bath, not dissimilar to how he had been sat in his office, but resting upon his thighs were bloodied arms. Greg could see that the cuts upon both of Sherlock’s wrist were rather deep, and were still bleeding. There were also cuts on the Sherlock’s forearm, and judging by the amount of blood on the sleeves of Sherlock t-shirt there were probably more cuts on the rest of his arms, and possibly elsewhere.

Greg took a few calming breaths through his nose. “It’s okay, it’s all going to be okay” He was unsure if he was trying to calm himself or Sherlock. He moved slowly, much like how you would move around an injured animal which at any sudden movements might become startled, towards the sink to get the first aid kit, he had to stop or at least slowdown that bleeding. Greg retrieved the kit and crouched down in front of Sherlock, addressing him in an unjudging voice, “Okay sunshine, I need to know where what you hurt yourself is.” Sherlock had stop crying at this point, but was still taking sniffling breaths, he looked up from where his gaze had been locked in his lap to look towards Greg, but not into his eyes. He nodded towards the wooden box beside him, which had a blood soaked scalpel inside it.Greg placed the first aid kit down, and moved the box into the sink, placing the lid on top of it as he did.  
  
He moved back to Sherlock and crouched down again, “Good boy,” he praised “now I just need to take a look at those cuts okay?” He gently picked up one wrist and examined it, then did the same to the next one. “Those are gonna leave some nasty scars sunshine.” He tried to joke. He took out the bottle of antiseptic out and poured it onto a ball of cotton wool, “This is going to sting, but I need to do it” Greg stared at Sherlock’s face hoping to see some form of emotion, but he just looked distant. Greg cleaned up Sherlock’s wrists and forearms, removing all the blood. It looked as though Sherlock had started off by cutting in straight deep lines, but had ended up cutting haphazardly in hope of creating the quickest ended result. Greg bandaged the wrist and forearm, securing it with miles of tape. “Sunshine,” he said gently, Sherlock’s head snapped up straight away, ‘not in the mind palace then’ thought Greg, “I need you to take your top off so I can take a proper look at your arms okay?”, Sherlock made a whining noise in the back of his throat and stared at Greg with such big puppy dog that he seemed decades younger. “It’s okay. Do you have more cuts under your top, on your stomach or something?” He ventured, but was rewarded with an almost imperceptible nod from Sherlock, “It’s okay sunshine, I won’t be mad at you, okay? I’m not mad at you, I just need to make sure they’re not too deep and clean the up” He said in a tone you might use to calm a frightened toddler, Sherlock nodded and allowed Greg to help him out of his t-shirt, wincing as he did so. There were about thirty cuts which were spread around Sherlock’s ribs, and stomach, and about twenty more on each of his arms. Greg let out a low whistle, “You’ve been in the wars kiddo.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a small smile, as he started to slowly emerge from his shell shocked state. Greg cleaned up the cuts and bandaged them up.   
  
“Okay lets go get you cleaned up, yeah?” He helped him to his feet and walked him through to his bedroom. He grabbed some old joggers from Sherlock’s wardrobe and chucked them towards him, before grabbing a t-shirt and throwing that also. Whilst Sherlock got changed Greg went to the bottom of Sherlock’s wardrobe and found a backpack, he busied himself grabbing a few t-shirts, and some underwear, before passing Sherlock a pair of trainers he had found. “You’re staying with me tonight.” He said in reply to Sherlock’s puzzled face. Sherlock took a breath as if he was about to rant about how he was fine, but seemed to falter at the last minute, he nodded and mutter, “Thank you, Greg”. Sherlock led the way out of the flat and down the stairs, the noise of the two descending caused Mrs Hudson to timidly exit her flat, smiling when she saw that Sherlock was there not just Greg.  
  
“We’re going back to mine Mrs Hudson, good night” He gave her a reassuring smile, and she nodded reassuring him that she understood. Greg led the Sherlock to his car, hoping he’d be able to talk to the younger man when they were at the flat and gage his mental state, before deciding whether to call Mycroft straight away or to decide when John got back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/subscribers/bookmarks/comments always appreciated
> 
> My Tumblr : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg decides if Sherlock is in immediate danger or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work, but kinda a slightly more fluffy chapter

**“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.”**  
  
Sherlock’s eyes shot open as they pulled up outside Greg’s flat, he blinked a few times trying to wake himself up slightly, but his eyes kept sticking shut, begging for the sweet release of sleep. But he knew that he wouldn’t be sleeping too soon, Greg would want to make sure he was okay, make sure he wouldn’t try again. Although Sherlock already knew he wouldn’t, not tonight, he didn’t think he could put up with anymore disappointment. ‘ _You’re weak_ ’ the voice attacked in his head with venom. He must have drifted asleep again as suddenly he was tipping out of the door, only to be caught by both his seat belt and Greg, however this successfully woke him up.  
“I’ve got you, sunshine” Greg held onto Sherlock until he was coherent enough to sit up properly and bear his own weight.

Carefully they staggered up to Greg’s top floor flat. Sherlock shuffled in timidly behind Greg. Greg nudged him in slightly so that he could shut, and lock, the flat door behind them, then he herded Sherlock toward the sofa, implying he should sit, then he headed towards the kitchen area. Whilst he was gone Sherlock took off his trainers and curled up on the sofa, his back to the rest of the room.  
 _‘He won’t let you sleep yet, Sunshine_ ’ the voice chided using Greg’s affectionate nickname in such a way that made it sound like an insult, ‘ _If you had wanted to sleep, you should have done a good job. Now you have no escap_ e’.

Something touched his shoulder, causing him to jump out his thoughts both mentally and physically.  
“Hey it’s okay… I was just getting your attention” Worry sketching new wrinkles across his face, and greying his hair “You need to drink this.” He pressed an ice cold glass of apple juice into Sherlock’s trembling hands. Greg sat on the coffee table watching Sherlock until he had finished the entire glass, after which he placed the glass beside him on the coffee table.

“Okay,” He started “Now we need to talk.” Sherlock’s were concentrated on a piece of fluff on his socks, desperate not to meet Greg’s eyes. Greg stopped talking, and waited five minutes until Sherlock finally looked at his face. His eyes lacked their usual guarded look, making him seem years younger, sometimes he forgot how much younger than himself he was.  
“Tell you what, let’s do yes or no questions, yeah?” He used the voice he used when they had to interview young children.  
Sherlock sucked his lips in but nodded.  
“Have you taken any drugs that would make you do this?”  
“No!” Sherlock protested at the thought.  
“Okay,” he nodded “was this part of, or the effects of a case?” He knew it wasn’t but he had to hope.  
“No.” he turned his head towards the window which overlooked the skyline. He knew what was coming next, he could feel his insides slipping, like grains of sand falling down sand timer, waiting for the inevitability of running out of time.

“Sherlock, did you do this on purpose?”  
Sherlock ignored the question.  
“Sherlock did you hurt yourself on purpose?” He repeated, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee, grounding him.  
A slow, slight nod came in reply as silent tears blemished Sherlock’s face. Immediately dropping his police-interview-persona he knelt onto the sofa beside Sherlock and pulled the younger mans head to rest upon his chest, sobs now raking through his body. He held him close pressing a paternal kiss into the greasy birds nest.

He soon felt and increase of weight from the younger man’s head. Peering his own head down, he saw the fluttering of eyes fighting sleep as Sherlock gradually slumped more and more of his weight onto Greg.  
A smile tugged at one side “Come on sunshine, I’m not a pillow.” He said in a put upon voice whilst nudging Sherlock’s head off of him.  
“’m not tired” came a murmured reply, as the head tried to burrow back onto Greg’s chest.  
Greg rolled his eyes, and hauled Sherlock up by his arm and frog marched him to the guest bedroom. Sherlock became rather pliant when he saw the comfy bed, grateful to be able to get warming as he had been trying to hide a shiver. He slipped underneath the duvet still rather cold, which was quickly amended by Greg placing a blanket on top of the duvet, carrying him quickly off to sleep.

Greg sighed at how quickly Sherlock fell asleep, he was pretty certain that Sherlock wouldn’t be trying anything that night, but he settled down into the armchair in the room anyway, just to make sure. He pulled a blanket over himself and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try update again soon


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock remembers his first stay in Greg's flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so crap at updating, but college is finished now, so I'll be much better at it.

**“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” “Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.”**  
  
  
Sherlock came into consciousness slowly, he had one arm slung over his face blocking the sunlight from reaching his eyes. The heat coming from his bandaged arm, and the gentle breathing coming from across the room forced him to remember the previous nights… activities. He groaned quietly so that he wouldn’t wake Greg and sat himself up, careful not to use his arms too much, so that he wouldn’t cause himself too start to bleed again. He carefully creped out the guest bedroom towards the bathroom.  
  
After he had gone the loo he decided to have a look around Greg’s flat. It had been a while since he had first ended up at Greg’s.  
  
*******************************Nine years ago*******************************************************************  
  
 _The Larston case had been one of the hardest cases in the past decade for the Yard inspectors. Greg Lestrade had just been promoted to a Detective Sergeant in the CID branch on the police, he regarded himself as a clever man, but this case made him feel like he was trying to teach a squirrel to sing. There had been 18 recent robberies in large businesses and small banks within the past 12 months, major ones. A total of over a million pounds had already been stolen. The police knew that they were linked somehow, but they had no idea how, or by whom they were being carried out as all of the CCTV showed nothing – despite there being no blind spots on many of the buildings and no alternative access points._  
  
Greg was taking a well-earned coffee break in a café close to the Yard, when a skin, messy haired young man sat opposite him at his table. “Can I help you?” he ask politely, he had after all been raised to be as polite to people as it was humanly possible to be. The young man, barely older than a teenager cleared his throat, Greg searched his memory for who this boy – no, man, could be. He thought how he looked strangely familiar, the man’s face was bizarre, like it shouldn’t exist as there were simply too many contradictions in it; the strong jawline and heavy eyebrows joined together in a jumbled ensemble with a cupids-bow mouth, and eyes which appeared to include all the possible eye colours in an arrangement which reminded Greg of space.  
“I see you still haven’t left your cheating girlfriend, despite your recent promotion at Scotland Yard which, by the way explains why she hasn’t left you, at least not yet. More money and more hours that you’re working, especially with this recent case, hardest one in a while for the police, although that’s probably not saying much, but that’s why I’m here.” The posh sounding baritone came out in a breathless baritone, pausing only for a breath before saying. “I can help you. I can catch your magpie, or magpies, but only one is-”  
  
“Okay, hold on just a second sunshine.” Greg finally managed to get out, Sherlock tilted his head sideways at the endearment which had slipped out and became silent, waiting for the detective sergeant to compose himself. “Thank you. Right you’re that kid aren’t you? The one with the weir- archaic name, Sheridan… No wait! Sherlock” He exclaimed, leaving him a silenced Sherlock to nod in confirmation. “Okay, look kid, I know you’re clever but you’re what 20?”  
“22.” Sherlock interrupted.  
“Okay, you’re 22 years old, last time we met you were arrested for doing drugs, and you were homeless, though by the looks of you that last one has changed.”  
“Yes. And I’m clean. And, you need me, I can help you.” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.  
“Look sunshine, I get you’re clever, but the police don’t consult amateurs-“  
“I’m not. I’m a consulting detective.”  
Greg let out a small sigh, “And what’s that then?”  
  
Sherlock gave a sly half smile, “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me”, Greg let out a small huff at this, before Sherlock quickly added, “Or at least they will, once I’ve helped you, until then I’ve been taking on some private cases.  
Greg buried his face in his hands, unsure how to let down the eager young man.  
“You’re looking for a connection between the robberies, you’ve tried all the possible ways: security personnel, recently released felons, alarm company fitters, but nothing fits. But I don’t supposed you’ve thought about the other employees at the alarm company, who also made the cameras, say perhaps the inventor of the software.” Sherlock stopped to allow Greg to consider his idea.  
“Actually, we talked to the inventor of the software, he said he wasn’t aware of any fault that could happen”  
“There’s a reason he wouldn’t know this, he didn’t invent it. He stole it off our magpie, or one of them at least.”  
  
Greg gaped, “And how exactly do you know this?” He questioned suspicious of the young genius' almost superhuman power of believing he could solve this case.  
Sherlock shrugged slightly before explaining, “He isn’t a software designer- he wears the wrong tie. But as I doubt you would accept simply that I do have more evidence. And I can help you catch your real thief.”  
As they sat in the small café, Greg became more and more, sure of Sherlock’s thesis.  
Luckily so did Greg’s superior, who allowed Sherlock to work with them on the case. With his help, Scotland Yard managed to catch the Larston brothers, both the software and inventor and the grunt of the operation.  
They wrapped up the case by 4am, and Greg insisted that Sherlock spend the night at his, which was close to the Yard.  
“Greg?” Sherlock asked timidly as Greg helped sort out the rarely used spare room for Sherlock to sleep in.  
“Yes sunshine?” Greg answered tiredly.  
“Can I consult with the Yard now?” The man seemed even younger than he was due to tiredness.  
“Well,” Greg started, “You’d have to be clean, and it’d probably only be on the odd couple of cases we were really stuck on. But you have to get clean Sherlock, I know you’re not high at this second. But I also know that you’ve used within this past week.”  
Sherlock appeared to consider something before nodding solemnly, “Okay. Yes, I shall. Goodnight Greg, I shall see you soon” and with that he climbed into the readily made bed.  
  
By the time Greg woke up the next day, Sherlock was long gone.  
*********************************************************************************************************************  
A present day Greg bursting into his living room/ kitchen brought Sherlock out of his memories, Greg glanced over towards the windowsill where Sherlock was sat.  
“Shit Sherlock!” He exclaimed, “Do you know how worried I was! I thought that’d you’d gone and…“ He broke off the end of his sentence with a long-suffering sigh and wiped his forefinger and thumb across his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose.  
He sighed again, and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “Right sunshine, I think we should talk about what we’re going to do.”  
  
At these words Sherlock seemed to regress to even younger than he had been when Greg had first met him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please kudos/subscribe/comment/ ect if you wish 
> 
> My Tumblr should you want it : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock decided how to move on. Sherlock makes stupid choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos, ect appreciated

**“Could be dangerous - SH”**  
  
Sherlock suddenly stood up and started pacing, his hands in his hair, furiously scrubbing at his scalp. His face was pinched into a distressed shape, and he seemed to be considering multiple actions, his eyes darting around the room; from the window, to the door, to the sofa, he span a couple of times as though he was trying to move towards all three of the choices at once, his eyes scrunched shut.  
  
Suddenly he felt two hands on his shoulders, he tried to spin again but was met with a surprising strength fixing him to the spot. After a couple of minutes of standing still Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes, to find a weary looking detective inspector in front of him, his hands still on Sherlock’s shoulders.  
Greg stared deeply into Sherlock’s eyes as though he was searching for something. Finally having been able to apparently find nothing in the younger man’s eyes he removed one of his hands from his shoulder, but kept the other one there, as an anchor of sorts, or possibly to catch him quicker should he try and run out of the flat.  
  
“Okay?” He asked cautiously, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t okay in any sense of the term, but simply wanting to gage whether the man was there to be able to have a reasonable conversation. Sherlock nodded once, his eyes darting to Greg’s and back again, as though he was not quite brave enough to look at them for more than a second.  
“Right now, let’s go sit on the sofa yeah? And have a talk-”, at this Sherlock’s face started to look as though he was about to start fliting about again before Greg finished quickly with  
“Sunshine, I promise you I would never do anything you wouldn’t want me to. But we need to talk about what happened last night, and what goes on from here, okay?”  
Sherlock hesitated before nodding solemnly and moving to sit on the sofa, it was only once Sherlock had sat that Greg removed his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder, and sat down immediately in front of him on the coffee table.  
  
Greg cleared his throat, “Sherlock, what did you try to do last night?”  
Sherlock had become very interested in his hands which were crossed in his lap, after he had waited a couple of minutes he realised that Greg wasn’t going to back down, may as well play ball then he thought.  
“I tried to kill myself.” He answered apathetically.  
Greg swallowed, “Right, okay. Why did you do it?”  
  
 _‘Tell him, tell him, make realise what a waste of space you are. Or tell him you hear voices. He’ll lock you away. Or worse he’ll tell Mycroft.’_ The voice warned.  
“I… I just didn’t want to live anymore” he mumbled out purposely choosing to use the past tense, as to try throw Greg off.  
Greg’s hand reached across and squeezed his knee, “Sher, why didn’t you come to me, or tell John?”  
  
 _‘Because you’re scared of the mean voice in your head’_ the voice chided, but Sherlock settled with a shrug of his shoulders, his eyes trained down on his bandaged wrist, which must have bled slightly during the night.  
  
Greg sighed realising he wasn’t going to get an actual answer off Sherlock, he slowly stood up, moving across the room to where his phone was on charge,  
“Okay, I’m gonna give Mycroft a call, I’ll get him to get you and appointment with some big posh doctor, okay? Then you’ll be as good as new in no time.”  
  
At the hearing of Mycroft’s name, Sherlock jumped up and shouted “No!”  
Greg almost dropped his phone, catching it at the last second, looking alarmed at Sherlock’s sudden outburst.  
“No. No Mycroft. He’s not to know. Please Greg, he can’t. Don’t tell him please, I’ll go to my own doctor, just don’t tell him!” Sherlock implored, close to tears.  
  
Greg contemplated for a second, wondering why on earth Sherlock was so utterly against his brother having anything to do with him. As images of finding Sherlock the previous night flooded his mind, the idea of having to try and get Sherlock to actually go to the doctors won against ringing Mycroft, at least for the time being. He pinched the bridge of his nose, before sighing.  
“Okay, fine. No Mycroft, at least not at the moment. But you’re going to your doctor’s today, as soon as possible. And you’re going to tell them what happened, and you’re going to let them do whatever they feel is needed.” Sherlock nodded to all these conditions, then Greg quickly added “And I’m going to take you. I’m not going to insist on going in with you, but I’m going to sit in the waiting room. Then you’re going to stay here until John comes home – at the very earliest, okay?”  
  
Sherlock looked like he might start to protested, but after he saw the inspector’s resolute face he realised that this was a battle he was not going to win.  
  
By half ten that morning, Sherlock had refused any breakfast, booked the appointment, and got dress into the clothes Greg had packed him the previous night (much to Sherlock’s irritation they were jeans, and some jumper which his mother had sent him one Christmas and he had never since looked at, let alone wore). Greg and Sherlock sat in the waiting room, waiting for the buzzer to sound so that he could go in to see Doctor Wainwright.  
Sherlock deduced all the other patients; three marriages on the rock, five sexually transmitted infections, one unplanned pregnancy, one hypochondriac. Boring. Finally the buzzer sounded, Sherlock glanced at Greg who gave him a reassuring smile, before he stood up and went to the room.  
  
He sat in the small doctor’s office, describing his symptoms (naturally ommiting the part where he cut himself, and the part where he decided to try and kill himslef), answering questions about his general health, lifestyle and life situations.  
“Okay, I think you’re going through depression, but I’d also like to run some blood to check up on your general health, and to see if there could be something else causing your mood problems. But before I prescribe you some antidepressants, I’d like to ask you if you’ve ever been diagnosed or experienced the symptoms of Bipolar disorder, which also used to be called manic-depression.”  
  
 _‘Don’t tell. It’ll stop your brain. You won’t be able to work. Without the work your brain will rot._ ‘ the voice hissed.  
“Nope, never.” He lied.  
The doctor smiled, “Okay I’m going to start you on a small dose of Citalopram, and we’ll meet again in a month and see about increasing it”  
  
Five minutes later, Sherlock walked back into the waiting room with a prescription and a feeling in his chest that he had just done something very stupid. It felt brilliant. It felt like he was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives back in London

**“Homeless network. My eyes and ears all over the city. Absolutely indispensable.”**  
  
It was raining as John’s plane touched down at the airport, just three days after he had departed for his medical conference. The conference had been of little interest to John, as there was no new, interesting breakthroughs in the General Practioner’s bread and butter of curing chest infections.  
Also, although he wasn’t the sort of person to admit it, he was distinctly worried about Sherlock. In fact he was so preoccupied with thinking about Sherlock and how he was, that he missed his bag going round at the baggage claim, not once, but twice. Having finally collected his suitcase he headed out of the airport and was about to open the door of a cab, when he backtracked, as though a character in a film being rewound.

On a bench outside the airport was a familiar coated figure practically hidden by shadows. The only reason John had even noticed them was because this character was behaving in, what most people on earth would think of, a peculiar way. You see, this man was both twirling a closed umbrella in his hand and, was being sheltered by another umbrella which was being held by a pretty, younger lady.  
“Mycroft Holmes?”   
“Doctor John Watson.”  
“Look, what are you doing here? I already told you I’m not interested in spying on Sherlock for your petty sibling feud.” As John said the words his suitcase, which was laying abandoned at his side, was picked up and placed in the boot of a dark car.  
“I wanted to give you a ride back to your flat.” Mycroft replied in a mild sounding voice.  
“You drove all the way out here, in order to offer me a lift?” He stared intently at Mycroft, it was a look that would have left lesser men quaking in their boots.  
“I wished to visit there and talk to Sherlock, and he seems to be more amenable to talking to me like a functioning adult whilst you’re around” He relented after he had been stared at for a few minutes.

After hesitating for a couple of seconds, John realised that Mycroft was being fairly reasonable in his request. And it wouldn’t harm John to get home to his own bed quicker, he found that his shoulder seemed to ache more in the colder, wetter weathers. As they drove, John decided it was best the steel himself for the possibility of one of Sherlock’s moods. The mood where he would play violin angrily up to the early hours of the morning after talking to Mycroft, not that John had known you could play the violin that angrily.   
“So what are you wanting to talk to Sherlock about?” He tried to ask casually.  
“Nothing that will disrupt your sleep schedule too drastically Doctor Watson.” He drawled dryly, in a way only a Holmes could, “I noticed that some of the government’s CCTV cameras surrounding your flat had been broken. The last pictures on all of the different cameras footages, were people of the homeless population”. He smiled in a way which reminded John of Sherlock, a smile which clearly stated _‘we both know what’s going on here_ ’.  
“Last I checked Sherlock’s not homeless, unless of course his living situations have changed drastically in the past few days. In which case I don’t suppose you know anyone who’ll be wanting a flatmate?”   
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “The homeless population, or as Sherlock calls them his homeless network, is Sherlock’s way of gathering information or surveillance on people or things, or just general things he can’t be bothered doing. Things that recently you’ve been doing. His eyes and ears.”   
John squinted slightly registering the insult. “Wait are you calling me a tramp?” He demanded irately.   
“Don’t worry I’m sure you’re doing fine.” With that both of their doors had been opened, John hadn’t realised that they had arrived back home.   
  
John unlocked the flat door and carried in his suitcase through, Mycroft entered behind him. John frowned at the empty living room, it was late, but it wasn’t that late. He left his case and went through to Sherlock’s bedroom, knocking twice before entering. Bile started to rise from his stomach when he found the bedroom bare, and only rumpled sheets upon Sherlock’s bed. He entered the open-doored bathroom in a desperate last effort.  
  
“Mycroft.” John’s sharp, insistent voice made Mycroft turn on his heels.  
John was stood with a panic-stricken face, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.   
In his hand was a blood soaked towel.  
  
The unlikely pair set at work at once, Mycroft starting to ring through to St Bart’s, and surrounding hospitals, John dialled Lestrades number, in the hope that he would know where Sherlock was. Mycroft had just got through to the main desk at St Bart’s when John raised a hand silently to stop him. Relief flooded his system like adrenaline. But he couldn’t ignore the weary creases around John’s eyes. As John hung the phone up, he stared at Mycroft’s face, only traces of the relief left.   
“He’s at Lestrades. But he said we better come fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit shorter than prevous ones, was trying to write through writers block. Also sorry for any mistakes as I wrote this at 2:30am.
> 
> As always, kudos/subscribes/comment/ect aif you enjoyed it
> 
> My tumblr: a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft arrive at Gregs flat

**“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”**   
  
John hadn’t realised how much power Mycroft Holmes truly had until they were hurtling down empty London roads without ever having to stop for other cars or traffic lights. After about ten minutes they pulled up to the new build mews that housed Greg’s flat. John’s mind was racing, what had happened at the flat? Why was there blood all over the bathroom? Had Sherlock been attacked? Was he okay now? Why had Greg sounded so tense on the phone?  
  
It wasn’t until they had entered the lift and were on the way up to Greg’s flat that John noticed the tense expecting-but-hoping-he-was-wrong look on Mycroft’s face. John turned to face him and was about to ask when a ding signified they had reached the top floor. As the doors slid open they were assaulted by the sound of a radio playing chart music and the sound of a violin being played to fit with the loud beating of the music. John noticed Mycroft squeezing his eyes shut for a second, like one might do when they were hoping what they were living were simply a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, then he expertly pasted a composed look upon his face and led the way the door of Greg’s flat.  
  
Greg answered the door after one knock. Under his eyes were tinted a slight purple colour, his eyes bloodshot, and the look of concern he was wearing had etched wrinkles across his face. His grey hair was stuck up in multiple angles after it had had hands run through it what seemed like hundreds of times. He stood by silently to let John and Mycroft in, if he were surprised to see the older Holmes brother he didn’t say. The living area seemed like it was usually a fairly tidy place, but it was now carpeted in police case files, there were multiple sheets of paper covering the wall, some were pictures, others odd sentences or words. There were three long pieces of string from the living area to the other side of the room knotted on the handles of kitchen cupboards kinetic what John could only assume was one piece of evidence or thought with another by the pieces of paper. Twirling and pacing between the files was Sherlock.   
  
The man who John had left a mere two days ago; who moved slowly, whose face was ashen, his muscles tensed, his shoulders heavy, the man who John had been so worried about for the past two days, that man had disappeared. In his place was this new Sherlock. A Sherlock who moved quickly, who was playing music loudly, who had created the mess in Greg’s flat, who seemed to be working on a case. Seemed being the operative word, there was a certain sadness in Greg’s gaze that made John take in his other features. His pale face, the greasy bird’s nest attached to his head, the cheekbones which seemed to be even more prominent, the darting eyes, and the most disturbing of all, the blooded bandages that were wrapped around both arms. He heard Mycroft suck in a breath, then breathe out “Oh Sherlock.”   
  
Greg turned the music off, Sherlock stopped playing the violin and span around with an irritated look on his face. He frowned “John, what are you doing here? I thought you had- although perhaps not, unless Mycroft abducted you,” He shot Mycroft a murderous glare “Unless of course you really were at a conference, in which case why? What could have been there that you needed to go, was there a breakthrough in discovering a cure to the common cold – or treatment for the flu? Because if there were what was it because - although if there wasn’t I have been tinkering with a few solutions myself and they wouldn’t be that hard to test and probably aren’t that harmful….” He started to move towards the door out of the flat. “In fact if I start making them now I’m sure I can perfect it by breakfast, or lunch or – wait what time of day is it? Actually that doesn’t matter, what matters is I get 100 bees from, well wherever it is you get them from, so I can get started in curing the cold!”   
  
Greg caught his arm and positioned himself between Sherlock and the door, blocking his exit. “Sherlock. Sherlock!” Sherlock cut of his incessant babbling to look at Greg. Greg waited for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to stop all the deductions that the D.I knew were happening in the detective’s head. “Okay Sherlock, you need to talk to me John and Mycroft. You need to let us help you. Please.” He pleaded, the idea of what would happen if Sherlock didn’t get help hung unsaid in the air. Sherlock nodded almost as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to upload
> 
> My tumbr : a-study-in-lobo


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to get this up, I was on holiday. Thank you all for all your kind comments, they really do make my day!

**“And the Iceman.”**  
  
Sherlock sat staring at his hands clasped as his forearms rested upon his bouncing legs. ‘ _It’s your own fault_ ,’ a voice rasped in his head ‘ _You should run. You need to go. Go. Go. Run. Escape._ ’  
A deeper, more familiar voice joined in the hidden conversation. ‘ _Don’t trust them. Don’t trust him. He’ll send you back. Back to me_.’ A silky, sly laugh, bounded around his head, filling him with an old sense of dread. ‘ _You should finish the job. Finish the job_.’  
  
A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his spiralling thoughts.  
“Sherlock, you with us?” John asked staring into his eyes as if staring into the depths of his darkened soul.  
Sherlock nodded, not quite looking into John’s eyes. John took a seat on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, sitting so close that their knees touched. John was certain he wasn’t letting him out of his sight anytime soon. Greg took a seat on the sofa next to Sherlock, sitting so he would be able to reach the younger man should he need to, but far enough away that he wasn’t encroaching on Sherlock’s space. Mycroft resigned himself to standing in the far corner of the room, with an anxious and fearful face chipping at his usual plastered on knowing look.  
John stared deeper into his eyes, “Sherlock, I need to know what drug you took.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply, “I’m clean.”  
John grabbed Sherlock’s chin to make the younger man’s eyes meet his own. “Sherlock, this isn’t a game. Tell me what you took.”  
Both men stared into the other’s eyes, neither relenting.  
  
“John, he’s telling the truth. He hasn’t taken anything illegal. Trust me he wouldn’t be sitting here if he had.” Greg stared into John’s eyes, imploring him to believe him.  
John nodded once. “Okay. Okay then, we need to figur- wait. You said he hadn’t taken anything illegal, does that mean he took something else, something legal?”  
Greg frowned slightly, “Yeah, just the tablets he got from the docs”  
  
“You know I am right here right, you can talk to me. You know ask me a conversational question about my supposed drug habit everyone seems so obsessed with.” Sherlock added heatedly, which earned him a scathing look from Mycroft. Greg rolled his eyes at Sherlock but picked his way to the kitchen to extract a packet from one of the cupboards. He walked back over and tossed the box to John, just as Sherlock extracted Scrabble from one of the bookshelves and started to set it up.  
  
“Let’s play Scrabble.” Sherlock announced from where he was sitting on a case file, Scrabble in front of him. “I’m really quite –“ Sherlock suddenly jumped back up, “No! Let’s play cards, I really am quite very good at cards, in the past I’ve won quite a substantial amount, in fact one time I even won a ho-“  
  
“Sherlock!” Greg called getting his attention. “Come and sit back down over here, we could do with talking to you a bit, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock stared at all the people in the room; Greg with his greying tussled hair, the bags under his eyes, and the worry sketched on his face, but that wasn’t the only thing, no he could trust Greg, kind reliable Greg, a sense of familiar safeness for when things went wrong.  
Next John; who was staring curiously at the box in his hands, as always seeing but not realising, the tiredness in his face from having a packed few days, and the slight stiffness in his shoulder which Sherlock realised always came in bad weather, or when John was feeling particularly emotional.  
Lastly to his older brother, his balding gingery hair as always held perfectly in place, as though it were made from plastic, who knows maybe it was, his suit was probably worth more than Sherlock’s rent, yet not the newest one Mycroft owned, so obviously his idea of casual wear, he sat with perfect etiquette, as though he had been trained by the queen herself. It was only Mycroft’s mostly hidden facial emotions which proved that he wasn’t a Victorian automaton: the fear hidden in the blue of his eyes, and the disappointed look his face relaxed into when he thought no one was looking.  
  
Sherlock nodded and sat, although he was unable to stop his leg from jiggling. John blinked, as though trying to wake himself up from a dream, then having realised it was impossible to wake up from reality, cleared his throat to begin talking.  
“Do… Sherlock do you know what these are?”  
Sherlock nodded again, staring at his dancing feet.  
“Okay, do you know why they may have caused an excess in energy in someone, and a complete turnaround in mood?” John asked, making his question generalised, as though he hadn’t already realised what was going on.  
Sherlock nodded, “Those symptoms could be because the original diagnosis of clinical depression was made to seem worse than it was due to underline vitamin deficiencies, such as in vitamin D or Folic Acid, or in other physical ailments which could be detected by a blood test. Or perhaps if the person had other medications which would cause side effects with them. Or if the person has other previous mental health issues, such as bipolar…” He tailed off.  
John nodded and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth, the way, Sherlock had noticed, he did when Sherlock did something John deemed good. His face contorted back into its professional set. “Sherlock, do you know why the tablets effected you?”  
Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. After a minute of John staring at him, he relented and gave a verbal answer. “As a teenager, I may have been diagnosed with Bipolar disorder,” he then quickly added with a flustered look “but it’s not true I feel fine, great in fact. Honestly never better.” He froze when he saw John’s disbelieving face in front of his own. “Okay I get it, it’s fine honestly a bipolar flatmate isn’t exactly what you signed up for, or in fact what anyone, really, would want, Of course you’re welcome to carry on staying at Baker Street until you find new accommodation.”  
  
John frowned, “Sherlock I’m not moving out just because I’ve found out you’re bipolar, I mean you really think this would be the thing to put me off? I mean you keep body parts in the fridge, and chase criminals for a living, trust me you having a mental health issue isn’t going to put me off.”  
Sherlock took in the earnest face before his own and smiled.  
Mycroft coughed awkwardly whilst Greg decided to busy himself attempting to make tea in the cluttered kitchen area.  
“Well, this was all very touching, but I must be off. Doctor Watson I’ll leave Sherlock in your capable hands, I trust you’ll text me the medications you’ll need to start Sherlock on. Inspector.” He nodded at Greg, then paused as though he were about to say something emotional to Sherlock, instead he just nodded again and said “Brother Mine.” To Sherlock, before departing from the flat.  
  
John and Greg shared a puzzled look at the lack of controlling Mycroft had done in the affair that night, which was soon interrupted by Sherlock saying, “He doesn’t do emotion.”. Before excitedly telling John about the ‘case’ he had found. John and Greg sat back and nodded every once in a while at what Sherlock was telling them, about his case, which John could tell by the way Greg was looking on, was not really a case at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter's probably going to be the last one in the fic, but not done with writing Sherlock wih Bipolar just yet, so once I figure out how to do a series, that'll be done!

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr should you want it : a-study-in-lobo.tumblr.com


End file.
